


love like yours

by tanyart



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Body Image, M/M, Self-cest, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8037322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: Genji’s future isn’t what he wants (now), but maybe he will (later).





	love like yours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fishew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishew/gifts).



> For a fish who is a huge enabler. Please check out her [genjicest comic](http://fishuus.tumblr.com/post/149355060152) (PG). I'm living the life, guys!!
> 
> And special thanks to eddi and yil for letting me wail in despair about Genji and writing, and writing about Genji.

* * *

 

There is a stranger in front of Genji.

“It was an accident,” the stranger says, in Genji’s own voice. He begins to explain, but Genji isn’t listening. He cannot, though he isn’t sure if it is from shock or if it is because he refuses to.

Genji’s hands turn into fists in his lap. The stranger sits across from him, more at ease despite the circumstances. _His armor is different from mine_ , Genji thinks, and it makes him feel more awkward in his standardized training clothes, all austere gray and somber black guards. The stranger’s armor is white and silver, the visor a brilliant green accent against the plating and bold-faced kanji over the abdomen. It's simple but forward, almost arrogant, and it reminds Genji of how he used to be. The stranger does not hide his inhuman body behind thin, constricting fabric. Genji wants to hate it, but he digs his fingers over his training clothes—he hates those even more.

“Are you listening?” the stranger asks.

“No.”

The stranger leans forward, hand clasping Genji’s forearm. Their metal skin click over each other. Genji cannot feel it but he imagines the buzz of opposing timelines repelling his arm away. Or maybe it’s only animosity.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Genji says, the barest level of calm overlaying a dangerous hint of malice. He watches with sick satisfaction as the stranger withdraws. He will certainly lash out if touched again.

“I’ve already told you,” the stranger says, glowing a brighter green. “I’m from the future.”

“No. Not that,” Genji replies. He knows of Lena Oxton, the time-traveling pilot. If time can be manipulated now then he has no problem believing it can be controlled to some degree within the next decade. “It’s you. _You_ don’t make sense.”

“Why is that?” his older counterpart asks, amused, like he wants to laugh and share the secret behind it. “Because I am no longer angry with the world?”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Genji has spent all of fifteen minutes with the stranger after rousing from his insomnia-induced trance, his tiny sparse room suddenly alight with a green blur to match his own. A tipped chair and a new dent in the wall is the only evidence of their struggle before Genji had his head pressed against the floor and was forced to listen to the intruder.

He had asked questions, very personal ones, which the stranger answered without hesitation, so there was no doubt, _shouldn’t_ have been any doubts to who the stranger is, but-

Perhaps he should be calling him _Shimada-san_ , Genji thinks bitterly. A name from the past for a man from the future. It will suit the stranger, since his own family name still sends a sharp spike of hate through his body.

“It will only be a while,” Shimada says, acknowledging Genji’s silence with a slight bow of his head. “We need to wait for the charge to replenish, and we’ll be returned to our proper time.”

“‘ _We_ ’?” Genji repeats, filling up with unexpected dread. He doesn’t want to see anyone else from the future. He doesn’t want to know.

“Have you not been listening? My partner and I both fell through the time stream,” Shimada says, turning his head. He seems to be listening to something under his helmet or seeing data in his HUD. “I must find him, or perhaps he will find us.”

“Who?”

A knock on the door interrupts Shimada’s answer. Two quiet taps. Genji does not have many visitors, especially at this time of night.

Shimada calls out, “Come in.”

“This is _my_ room,” Genji snaps, standing.

“ _Ours_ ,” Shimada corrects cheekily.

Genji is too aggravated to think of a proper reply, but there is the mysterious guest to think about and he hastily moves to the door. It does not bode well that Shimada has invited the person in without getting up, meaning the stranger has the ability to enter through Genji’s passcode.

“I should answer it,” Shimada says, moving to get up.

“You. _Stay_ ,” Genji snarls, vehement enough that Shimada stiffens from his tone.

He can hear the keypad beep from the other side, fast but precise. Practiced. Genji sees Shimada shrug but he stays put, right arm clicking softly as shuriken slide between his fingers.

The door doesn’t open, the locks remain shut. Genji freezes at the sound of an input error, access denied. Wrong passcode.

“Ah,” says Shimada, sounding wry. The shuriken click back into his arm. “Perhaps he doesn’t know this one.”

Genji presses his hand over the control panel. The door hisses open, element of surprise on his side for once.

“Genji!” McCree exclaims, only it’s not the McCree Genji is familiar with. He reaches for Genji’s wrist—no, hand. _Hand_.

Unlike Genji’s future counterpart, age has marked McCree more visibly. A sun-weathered face, a grown beard no longer patchy, a new prosthetic arm. Genji almost jerks back, unused to McCree stepping into his space with unchecked familiarity. It should feel invasive but Genji only stills, baffled by the way McCree’s grip tightens, reassuring, and loosens without letting go.

McCree looks relieved for only a moment before his gaze darts down to Genji’s training clothes. He halts in mid-word, dropping Genji’s hand. “...Oh, shit.”

Genji’s palm has no nerve sensors beyond pressure sensitivity but it burns all the same. He abruptly turns away, pointing to Shimada. The gesture is rude but he doesn’t care. “You must be looking for _that_ one.”

Shimada waves from further inside the room, unrepentant and smug. “Yo.”

“I was, thanks,” McCree says, glancing at Genji. He touches the brim of his hat. “But it’s good to see you too.”

Beneath his helmet, Genji can feel what’s left of his face twist into an ugly expression. “You sound so sure.”

“Well, I’ll leave it up to you then,” McCree replies, mild.

He’s being read, Genji realizes. McCree seems to know him, seems to know how he scowls beneath his helmet. Genji wants to move away, but McCree has already taken a step back, a respectable distance between colleagues.

“I hate to be rude, but may I come in?” McCree continues, looking over his shoulder. He has grown out his hair. It brushes over his serape, sweeps over his cheeks when he turns his head. “I’d rather not run into _my_ younger self either. Little hellion.”

And Genji is not an unfriendly person by nature. McCree’s abrupt change of manner makes him itch all the way down to his reinforced bones. The feeling of spite starts to ebb away, leaving Genji drained and slightly ashamed. It is easy to hate himself and all versions of him—past, present and future—not so for others. He steps aside, gesturing into the room.

“You are away on mission,” Genji says, resigned. English words escape him for a moment. “The… younger you.”

“Oh, bless. That’s one less problem we have to worry about,” McCree says dryly. He walks inside, hand coming up to pat Genji on the shoulder before he passes by.

Touchy American habits, Genji assumes, but he sees Shimada cross the length of the room, eagerness showing in his quick footsteps. Shimada moves his hand, not more than a twitch to the side, but McCree touches the inside of Shimada’s palm, the gesture brief but too deliberate to be called an accident. Shimada straightens, bounces on his toes once, and Genji knows that excited, energetic habit all too well.

The world slows and narrows down to this sudden revelation.

Genji closes the door, turning to Shimada. He switches to Japanese in disbelief. “ _Him?_ ”

Shimada starts, ribbon fluttering behind him, but he recovers well enough.

“He likes us,” Shimada murmurs back in the same language. His voice lowers. “And we like him. Very much.”

“ _You_ like him,” Genji corrects, annoyed by the inclusion.

“Hm.” Shimada makes a noncommittal noise while McCree politely pretends to not exist.

Genji rocks back on his heels, agitated and restless. Attraction seems like a foreign concept all over again. He feels nothing for McCree now, not the one away on his mission or the future one in his room. He isn’t sure what to make of it—for him, Jesse McCree is only an incomplete collection of mental snapshots: long training days, a loud voice in the mess hall, a nod from across the shooting range. The distinct sound of a pistol on the battlefield. A grim Blackwatch uniform offset by a cowboy hat.

It doesn’t line up.

“ _How?_ ” Genji asks.

Shimada shrugs.

“Seems like you two need to discuss a few things,” McCree says, much more tactful than Genji would have given him credit for. “I’ll be, ah, in the corner there, fixin’ my arm. That fella we ran into did a number on it.”

The last statement is directed to Shimada, but Genji takes another look at the prosthetic and silently agrees it is in dire need of repair. McCree’s left arm creaks alarmingly, dim light reflecting off exposed circuitry and dents. True to his word, McCree settles in the far end of Genji’s room, patting his pockets with a frown.

“If you need tools, they’re-” Genji starts to say.

“Bottom drawer,” Shimada finishes.

“Gotcha.” McCree sketches a casual salute with his broken arm before he crouches down to pull out the tools. His grin is incredibly fond, and he had looked at them both.

Shimada bounces on his toes again. Genji tries not to do the same.

“I should help,” Shimada says, evidently not willing to discuss the particulars.

Genji doesn’t answer. He lets Shimada walk away, sick with curiosity and something else that he cannot name. Shimada crouches down next to McCree and Genji watches him, feeling strangely far removed from everything. For the first time, he notices how Shimada moves his hands and angles his head, making little gestures as he speaks with McCree. It’s unsettling, seeing himself more animated. It certainly isn’t anything Genji would do now, but he takes note of the way Shimada expresses himself, hinting at the upcoming years of compensating without facial expressions. He does very well, discreet tiny movements accompanying his words without being too unwieldy. When McCree looks at Shimada, it’s his whole body at once and not just the blank metal face.

And even Genji can tell. Shimada looks happier. Better. Every part of him, from his lively hands to the lightness of his steps, the entire way he holds himself.

This will be him, years from now, and Genji suddenly cannot breathe from the thought of it. 

And in the next moment, Shimada laughs, cybernetic rumble emitting from his throat. The sound hits Genji’s auditory sensors like a piercing shriek of audio feedback. He stiffens, clenching his jaw, but it’s all in his head. His sensors are running fine but he has never heard it before. It makes him inexplicably angry. He wants to cut the sound off, pull whichever circuit that allows him to hear.

He wants to be able to laugh like that again.

A stab of white hot jealousy hits him, so sharp Genji almost steps back. He stares at the closeness of McCree’s body next to Shimada, so easy and familiar as they work on repairing his arm. Shimada tilts his head, listening when McCree speaks in his slow American drawl. They have all the time in the world while Genji is still _here_ , stuck in his own present.

 _We like him_. That’s what Shimada had said. But Genji can see it, clear as day. Shimada is in love, so completely and unapologetic about it. When McCree looks back at Shimada, Genji thinks the feeling might be mutual.

And it’s not so much the idea of McCree, who is still a stranger to Genji. It’s the idea of being happy with someone, and that someone being happy with _him_.

Genji shudders back to life. He crosses the length of the room, furious, and grabs Shimada by the chest plate, digging his fingers beneath the gaps of his armor. He hauls his future self up, shaking and livid.

“Are you fucking each other?” he asks in Japanese.

McCree’s face goes scarlet. He pretends not to understand. Genji belatedly realizes he has underestimated McCree, underestimated the years ahead of him in every conceivable way.

“Well, not at this exact moment,” Shimada says in English, joking as if he cannot sense Genji's mounting anger. 

Genji’s grip tightens on Shimada. He thinks of kissing McCree, of kissing _anyone_. He cannot feel through metal or silicone, and it does not connect, receiving or giving acts of pleasure when he cannot be felt.

“Was I upgraded? Did they fix me?” he demands, pushing forward. He reaches out for Shimada’s faceplate, wanting to rip it off, peel back the white and silver armor and see unbroken skin. “ _Am I-?_ ” He thinks _maybe_ , that maybe they made him whole again, to be able to feel again—

“Genji.”

A hand closes over Genji’s wrist, and it’s McCree of all things. Genji doesn’t know why he is surprised but he freezes, breathing erratic and loud within his helmet. McCree steps in between them, holding him back from Shimada, protective, even from himself.

His hand burns Genji’s wrist, non-existent nerves tingling. _So why does it burn?_

Genji jerks his hand back, glaring past McCree’s outstretched arm to Shimada. The buzzing in his head is getting louder. Lines of data flash in the periphery of his HUD, warning him. Malfunctioning. Bio-signs unstable. Always unstable, this mechanical body.

“Prove it.” And it’s all white noise, his voice rough like static. Inhuman. Prove _what_ , he doesn’t know—that he survives for the next couple of years in a body he hates, or that he lets go, somehow, of everything that burns him inside to keep living. Either seems impossible. His voice shudders again. “ _Prove that I am human._ ”

His vision flashes red but he sees Shimada draw back as if stung. _Good_ , he thinks, even when the bile rises in his throat.

“Genji.”

McCree’s hands fall on his shoulders, heavy weight pressing down. Genji starts, wanting to move back, but McCree sways with him, anchoring instead of restricting.

“Hey… hey.” McCree presses his forehead to Genji’s helmet. His face fills Genji’s vision, brown eyes sharp and focused with the kind of displaced intimacy meant for a different time. McCree lowers his voice, quiet words for Genji’s ears only, “It hurts you as much as it’s hurting him.”

Genji shuts his eyes, his focus shifting with dizzyingly speed. McCree’s hands on his body, his head bent low to Genji’s—this moment doesn’t belong to him. Maybe it will, in the future, but not today. His shoulders sag.

It's only the pressure, he knows. It's only weight and mass against his armor, nothing more.

Behind McCree, Shimada edges forward, touching the small of McCree’s back, and though Genji can’t see it, he feels McCree leans into it—an involuntary response. They have done this before, enough times they do not need to speak.

Genji doesn’t understand it, but he is beginning to want to. It makes his heart twist within his constricting chest.

“It’s not fair,” he chokes out, but the white noise in his voice has stopped. Some part of him knows, deep down, there is a possible future where he can _live_ and still have some semblance of the person he used to be. Shimada stands to the side, a testament that it isn’t such an impossibility, but he can’t imagine how long it must be, and Genji knows he has never been a patient man.

He starts to blink, mortified that his vision is blurring once more. Out of everything that’s broken in his body, his eyes can still fill with tears of frustration. Genji doesn’t move, afraid that passing a hand over his faceplate will give him away, and he has a feeling McCree will know if he does.

“I hope you know…” McCree begins, lifting his head. His hands over Genji’s shoulders slide down, catching themselves before the gesture becomes too private, too affectionate for Genji’s time. “You won’t be alone for long, and I...” He trails off, struggling to find the right words, trying to reconcile _knowing_ Genji but not having the permission of knowing him just yet.

Genji stares at him, his incomplete knowledge of McCree filling in, bit by bit. The little shifts in McCree’s stance, his voice lingering over his words when he doesn’t know what to say, the small helpless smile when he can’t say it, knows _not_ to say it. Tangible, real details. McCree is more than a stranger now, less of an idea or a faraway concept of the future, and Genji is already drowning in it.

It’s an old game he has played so many times before, back when the idea of loving someone was a frivolous one-night stand. It’s all muscle memory, remembering how to tilt his head and move his body closer, and Genji nearly forgets how the rules are different now.

McCree touches the back of Genji’s helmet, the switches to his faceplate. “May I?”

Genji goes rigid, and Shimada already knows the answer. Shimada murmurs something to McCree, hand coming up to his arm in warning, but Genji is already stepping back, tensing and hating himself for it. _No, no, no._

McCree’s hand moves away, fingers curling into his palm. He is not perfect, not a man of infinite patience and understanding, but he is reciprocal. “Sorry.”

An exchange of actions and emotions. The details of being human. McCree is _hurt_. By him. It makes Genji desperate, makes him want more of that sense of familiarity and intimacy. He wishes he can take off his helmet and be at ease with it. His hand comes up to his own face, as if he still has an expression to hide. It isn’t right to want McCree to kiss him.

Shimada stares at him. Shimada must know what he wants, if he still remembers how trapped Genji feels.

McCree steps aside, lead by Shimada’s guiding hand. Genji watches as Shimada pulls McCree close, presses his hand briefly to the back of his neck.

“Turn around,” Shimada tells McCree. “Don’t look.”

McCree’s expression is unreadable—or Genji thinks it is. Shimada gives no indication of anything and only puts his back to McCree, not even looking to see if McCree has turned away yet.

But McCree turns away, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck where Shimada had touched him.

“Now _you_ ,” Shimada says to Genji in Japanese. “You watch.” He puts both hands to his own helmet, pressing against the clasps, and takes it off. Then, he reaches for the back of Genji’s head, undoing the same clasps before Genji can protest.

Genji’s faceplate falls to the floor with a dull clatter. He blinks up at Shimada, vision disoriented and foggy, but he can hear Shimada’s rattling breath, same as his, shaky and labored without the helmet. Another blink, and his sight finally clears. A small noise escapes him, something between a choked sob and a bitter laugh.

It will be ten years later and he will _still_ have that same broken face, the metal jaw, damaged mouth and ugly scarring. The uneven creases of old burn wounds have not faded over time and Genji cannot even count the new scars over Shimada’s face. His eyes are ordinary gray, but there is a flash of circuitry behind the irises. He wants to look away, but Shimada’s palm radiates warmth against his cheek, holding him steady.

“He will kiss you like this,” Shimada whispers, quiet enough for only Genji to hear, and lowers his head, withered lips unpleasant to feel, but they are gentle.

Genji is soundless against Shimada’s mouth, but it’s all muscle memory again. He knows the motions, acted over a thousand times the past, but his gaze slides to McCree, still facing away from them. He thinks of all the incomplete pieces he knows—how McCree had pressed his forehead to his and how he had grabbed Genji’s hand, so easy and sure. The way McCree looks at Shimada, and the possibility that he might look at Genji in the same way some day.

McCree’s head is bent low, his hand still lingering over the back of his neck as he stands apart from them, and Genji closes his eyes and kisses Shimada back.

His mouth will feel different. He tries to imagine it, the rough beard and taller height. Shimada kisses him slow and sweet, slower than what Genji would normally do, his well-practiced movements stumbling over the leisurely pace. And maybe that is all McCree, but Genji finds he doesn’t mind Shimada’s mouth brushing over his face, the synthetic fiber of his fingers over his exposed skin.

Shimada smirks when Genji leans closer, and Genji knows _that_ is all him, not McCree. It is a little infuriating, but he starts to understand how McCree can be with him—with Shimada. Shimada is attentive, careful and unhurried as he angles his head to lead Genji through.

It isn’t long until Genji is gasping for air, and he can’t tell if he lungs are finally giving out, or if it is because Shimada is slowly undoing him. He pulls away, almost dizzy. Shimada looks similarly winded but he presses his forehead to Genji, in the same exact way McCree had done, and now Genji has no hope of catching his breath.

 _Years_. He’s going to have to wait years for this. Genji feels himself begin to sway, lightheaded, and Shimada’s hand goes to his waist.

“Out of practice?”

“You should know.”

With a laugh, Shimada kneels down to pick of Genji’s fallen faceplate, snapping it back in place with a playful push to Genji’s face. Genji inhales again, safe within the confines of his closed helmet, and Shimada’s smile is kind despite his flippant tone.

“That was interesting, wasn’t it?” he says, running a thumb over the corner of his mouth before he puts on his own mask. His chest heaves as soon as the clasps click back in place, betraying his nonchalance. It takes him a moment to regain his own breath, but he glances over his shoulder to McCree. “Aha, look how he waits. He must be dying of curiosity.”

Genji can picture his sly smile. He shakes his head, not easily fooled by Shimada’s teasing. There’s fondness overflowing in his words. He isn’t surprised when Shimada spins on his heel to go to McCree, drawn in as if there is an invisible force that he cannot stop, doesn’t _want_ to stop.

“Jesse,” Shimada says, and McCree whips around to Shimada pulling him close, murmuring something into his ear.

McCree’s eyes flicker to Genji with a raised eyebrow. It looks more amused than anything else. Genji doesn’t blush, but only because it’s second nature for him to be anything but bashful.

“We had a chat,” Genji says, confident enough to approach both McCree and Shimada. He doesn’t get too close, skirting along the edges of the invisible circle that encompass them.

“I can only imagine,” McCree mutters, grabbing onto the brim is his hat to tug it down. It doesn’t quite hide the color rising to his face.

Shimada doesn’t miss it. “Oh? What did you imagine?”

There is a second pause while McCree stares down at Shimada before his gaze shifts over to Genji, then back to Shimada. He seems to be bracing himself.

“Lord,” he huffs, dragging a hand down his face. “You two weren’t exactly _quiet_.”

Shimada laughs. He lifts his arm—Genji thinks he must want to touch McCree again—but it’s Genji that he grabs by the wrist. Just like that, Genji is out of their periphery and into their space, and he feels like he’s falling fast.

“He showed me how you kissed,” Genji says, unable to stop himself. His voice comes out low and flirtatious. Old habit, he thinks.

“I probably missed some things,” Shimada admits lightly. His hand hasn’t left Genji’s wrist. He pulls him closer. If it hadn’t been for the faceplate, Genji thinks he might be giving him a meaningful look, but Shimada’s hand makes a small fleeting gesture, palm up.

An invitation.

“You’re killing me, sweetheart,” McCree says, voice gone pleasantly rough. “Both of you.”

Genji is still uncomfortable when McCree’s hand goes to his neck, near the clasps, but McCree only tilts his head, pressing his lips along Genji’s metal jaw. Shimada had been right—he did miss some things. Like the way McCree has to stoop over him, metal hand resting over Genji’s shoulder, and how Genji needs to stretch up to meet him halfway. McCree’s head falls to his shoulder, nuzzling against the soft material of Genji’s throat. His hair drags over Genji’s armor, a touch of bright green reflecting from the strands. It’s all very chaste, off-handed details, but Genji’s heart starts pounding all the same. McCree feels like static, like a low buzzing electrical current.

“I’ll be around,” McCree tells him, muffled. He pulls away, both hands at either side of Genji’s face. “It might take a while, but it’ll happen.”

Genji stares back, wordless. McCree looks at him like he means something much more than Genji can comprehend. It’s a look Genji will find himself chasing after, if he isn’t careful. McCree blinks, catching his mistake. His smile is rueful and apologetic.

When McCree’s hands finally drop from his face, they hold out for Shimada. Genji listens, half attentive, to their conversation; they are leaving, back to their own time. Whatever device had brought them here has recharged, though they need to make their way back to it.

McCree moves towards the door and Genji trails after him. He wants to say something, _anything_ , but Shimada holds him back. Genji watches as McCree slips out the door, gone, and all the tangible details he has learned about him turns back to insubstantial smoke.

Shimada notices how he stares. His grip on Genji’s shoulder tightens and he lowers his voice, puts his audio emitter next to Genji’s ear. “Your Jesse will return from his mission next week.”

 _Your Jesse._ Genji’s breath hitches, and Shimada doesn’t miss that either. He turns Genji to face him, forceful.

“Do not make the mistake in thinking that he will solve everything. He is only one person,” Shimada warns, flashing steel and resolve—protecting McCree, just as McCree had protected him. At Genji’s stormy silence, his tone softens by a fraction. “You will meet other people, have other friends.”

Genji tips his head back. “Other loves?”

Shimada’s visor glows bright. He gives a one-sided shrug and lets go of Genji. “Perhaps. The future is not set.”

“Is it?”

Shimada laugh is wry.

“Next week,” he reminds, rapping his knuckles against Genji’s chest armor.

“Next week,” Genji echoes, watching him walk away.

“I’ll leave it up to you,” Shimada tells him, with all the confidence in the world.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lovely fanart!!!! _(thank you!!)_  
> [❤](https://twitter.com/fishuuuu/status/777386828307501056)  
> [❤](https://twitter.com/saimensHU/status/791245990724448256)


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